


Home

by hbomba



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Canon Lesbian Character, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Fridget, Lesbian, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-25 18:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18169793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbomba/pseuds/hbomba
Summary: Franky ruminates on what the definition of 'home' is to her.





	Home

* * *

I love you - I am at rest with you - I have come home.--Dorothy L. Sayers

* * *

“Go home,” Mr. Jackson said, tapping the roof of her car.

“Home,” Franky mumbled unsure of where that was anymore.

When Franky was a child home was a place she went after school. It wasn’t a safe place, it wasn’t even a  _ fun  _ place, it was a place of pain and abuse and anger. She remembered her drawings, fire and brimstone through the eyes of a child, and thought about how she ended up at Wentworth. From the group homes as a teen with perverted custodians to the sofa-surfing of her twenties all leading up to poor Mike Pennisi--the dickhead had deserved a swift kick to the sac but she chose poorly and went for the wok of hot oil instead. Joke was on her, of course, because she’d just finished her tour at Wentworth and she never wanted to go back.

Now, Bridget’s was home--not because that’s where she was staying, but because that’s where Bridget was. If home was a feeling, Bridget’s would be pure love and understanding. She felt safe there and reassured by its familiarity. Bridget’s scent lingered in every room and it was intoxicating. Her home was fashionable and spacious and there wasn’t much to dislike about it.

But she gave her key back--threw it like a petulant teen, was a better description--and now Franky was homeless. Okay, so,  _ homeless  _ is a bit of a stretch. There was the sad little bedsit--it might as well have been a cell, the only exception was that she didn’t have her own toilet. There was just the small matter of curfew, which she broke regularly, but she had yet to be caught because when she broke curfew she just crashed at Bridget’s. If Franky were being honest, she had broken curfew every day for the past three weeks. 

Franky gripped the steering wheel of her car. She was so glad it still ran after being in storage for nearly four years, especially because she would have to sleep in it tonight. She was too stubborn to go back to Bridget’s and too smart to get nicked for breaking curfew at the bedsit, so she drove to a public park, parking under the trees, she leaned her seat back. The wind shook her car as it howled outside. When the rain started, Franky sighed. Plinking off her roof, the rain was a reminder of her solitary life.

Never alone when she wanted company, Franky filled her life with conquests and friends with benefits because it was easier than maintaining a steady relationship. By easier, she meant emptier because Franky’s choices in lovers were very superficial--she wasn’t looking for companionship, she was just looking for a good root. Until Bridget had changed it all. 

She legitimately wanted to know more about her when they were in sessions. The mystery of who Bridget was ignited a fire in Franky, she had to get closer, to find out more. And the closer Franky got to Bridget, the more she wanted and needed from her. She fought the feeling in the beginning, pinning it to the sexual attraction she felt almost instantly, but not acknowledging that it might be something more.

Fact was, as Franky learned to love herself, she also fell in love with the woman who helped to realize she was worth loving, too. She’d done some really awful things during her time at Wentworth and she was far from absolved of her crimes, but Franky was learning that forgiveness was the key to most of the things that still haunted her. And in the case of people who were far in the rearview, she was learning that sometimes she couldn’t say sorry or ask for their forgiveness and she had to forgive herself.

Still, she was haunted by Boomer’s screams, and the guilt from letting her down gutted Franky. Boomer was the closest thing to family that Franky ever had. Someone that loved her unconditionally, and was loyal to her without question even when she didn’t deserve it. She was the best of the best. And Franky had let Bea burn her like some bloody lagger. She didn’t stand up, she didn’t protest, she didn’t even try to take the punishment for Booms, Franky just stood by and watched as her number one was burned, and she felt horrible.

But one of the themes she and Bridget revisited over and over again in their sessions was redemption and it drove Franky to file an appeal for Boomer’s extra time. She knew Boomer had forgiven her, but she still heard her screams tonight, reminding her that no shame is that easily left behind.

And then there was Bridget… Beautiful, brilliant Bridget. Since taking Franky under her wing, she’d flourished. Exposing those tender traumas had released the pressure on her rage and for the first time in Franky’s life, she felt calm, stable, even. And, oh, how she loved--steady and able--and Franky felt it in every aspect of their time together. From the smiles she seemed to save for her at Wentworth to the kisses she pressed against her cheek at the end of the day when she was free, she knew she was loved and her grateful heart loved Bridget back a thousand times harder.

Franky sighed. She should be curled around Bridget right now but her stupid pride kept her locked in her car at a park across the city. Franky considered her dad’s phone number again. Redemption again crossed Franky’s mind. After everything she’d done, surely her father was eligible for redemption, too.

Her thoughts circled around to Bridget again as she drifted off, coat draped over her, windows fogged with condensation from her breath, as the rain pounded the roof and hood of her car. She imagined a life without a parole officer or Vinegar Tits crowding her life with Bridget. A life where they could travel without violating her parole or international laws. She didn’t want to be an ex-crim, she wished she’d shown a little self-control and spared Pennisi the hot oil bath, but she knew at bare minimum she would have dropped him with a throat punch or kick to the balls. 

And he would have deserved it. 

Of course, Bridget would be the first to remind her that was not an appropriate response and while Franky had made a lot of progress with her anger, it was still possible to rile her. But damn if Bridget wasn’t always right. Anger and its white hot furnace in the pit of her stomach felt satisfying only momentarily and then the it was regret, always regret, for letting it get the better of her.

Tonight, she regretted throwing her key at Bridget, but she had let the anger get the most of her again. Ferguson and Vinegar Tits were still meddling in her life and she wasn’t even in Wentworth anymore. She wanted to be left alone with Bridget on a desert island. Fuck this reality shit. 

When morning dawned, she drove to the bedsit, picking up breakfast along the way. She sat in her sparsely decorated combination bedroom-lounge-kitchenette and ate her croissant as she read the paper. She hated her upgraded cell but forced herself to spend some time there. She knew her heart would always be at home with Bridget but the rest of her had to be brave and go it alone for the sake of personal growth and if anyone could understand that, it would be Bridget. 

Home. It was no longer a place of fear, abuse, or anger. Her home was a place for peace and right then it was a bedsit in the shittiest part of town, but it was hers and after a few months at Legal Relief, Franky was sure to be able to afford something nicer. She spent the rest of the day cleaning, organizing and unpacking the boxes she’d neglected, and when the afternoon sun crested on the horizon, Franky returned to Bridget.

She spent the night again, and Bridget’s bed felt like heaven after the night she spent in her car. Franky was soft where Bridget was concerned and could (and totally would) wind up back in Wentworth just because she wanted to sleep with her.

In the morning, she was barely awake when Bridget kissed her softly before leaving for work. She had nowhere to be, but she spent little time in Bridget’s space before heading back to her little hole in the wall. If she was going to make life on the outside work, she had to be stronger than home being where her heart was, or her court mandated address, she had to make home where she was. And right now that was a bedsit just far enough from Bridget’s to be annoying but she’d rented it never intending to stay in it. It was cheap and close to downtown--a great cover for her parole. 

It was furnished with a tired sofa-bed, a pair of end tables, and a two-person cafe table and chairs. Quite simply, there was nothing special about Franky’s home so she spent the entire day cleaning and decorating her small spaces. She hung a festive ring of holiday lights behind the sofa and a shelf in the kitchen for her cookbooks. A sad little flower in a vase sat on her cafe table was the finishing touch that she settled upon before rushing out to pick Bridget up from work.

Bridget had taken her car in for maintenance before work and asked for a ride that morning which Franky was happy to oblige, but being back at Wentworth for the second time in two days was surreal and unsettling and she was happy when she could drive away with Bridget by her side.

“Saw my dad today,” Franky said casually, flicking her blinker and slowing to turn onto a cross-street.

Bridget raised her eyebrows. “And how are you feeling about that?”

“Fine, I guess. I met my little sister.” Franky drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel.

“Oh?” Bridget tried hard to hide her surprise. 

“I thought I’d be jealous, but Tess is a great kid. And Dad’s doing right by her. I’m just glad she’s getting a better start that I did.”

Bridget nodded and smiled softly. “I’m proud of you.”

“Nah,” Franky said. “Nothing to be proud of.”

Bridget smiled, knowing otherwise. “Where are we off to?” She said, obviously not recognizing the route home.

“I’ve been working on something…”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm,” Franky hummed, staring out into traffic.

Bridget curled into the chair and leveled her gaze on her. “You’re not going to tell me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

When Franky parked in front of her building, Bridget raised her eyebrows. “Picking something up?”

“Nuh.” Franky shut the car off and smiled at Bridget. “Come on.”

The building was noisy and insulated poorly against the sound within, Bridget trailed behind her as they climbed the stairs to her unit. Leaning against her door frame, she waited for Franky to unlock the door. When the lock clicked, Franky looked up at her beautiful companion and smiled.

“Step into my hovel.”

The last time Bridget had been there it was a dingy economy suite, with its neutral color palette and well-worn furniture. Tonight, the same crappy convertible sofa bed sparkled with the holiday lights and colorful pillowcases adorned its corners, and the sad little flower on her table looked stronger now, stretching toward the light. 

“Oh, Franky, it’s wonderful…”

She laughed. “That might be a stretch. Hungry?”

Bridget’s arms encircled her waist, her lips tickling the whorls of Franky’s ear. “Mmm, famished.”

Franky grinned. “Get comfortable, I’ll make us some dinner.”

Kicking off her heels, Bridget walked to the radio, turning its dial until music began to fill the small bedsit. Pouring a glass of wine for her lover, Franky delivered it with a soft pat on her rear and Bridget smiled, receiving the glass and sipping the wine gratefully. 

Opening the refrigerator, Franky removed a tray of prosciutto-wrapped melon and set them on the small table beside the sofa. Bridget made a delighted noise, and moved to the tray for a taste. Franky watched the psychologist nibble on the hors d'oeuvres with great amusement.

“Can I ask, what brought this on?” Bridget sat on the arm of the sofa, biting into another piece of melon.

“I’m making the best of a bad situation,” Franky said with a smile thrown over her shoulder.

Bridget chuckled and shook her head. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken piccata,” Franky said sliding a butterflied chicken breast into the pan with a sizzle. Sitting on the sofa, Bridget pulled her feet up underneath her and laid her head back on the cushion. “Tired?”

“Ferguson is keeping us all on our toes.”

“The Freak has that effect on people.” She smirked moving swiftly from her mis en place to the small stove. There was more sizzling and then the sharp aroma or lemons and capers wafted through the small space.

“That smells wonderful,” Bridget said, inhaling again.

Franky sprinkled salt into the sauce and swirled the pan expertly before dipping a spoon into the liquid. She brought the spoon to her lips and slurped the sauce noisily. “Mmm, yes, I may have outdone myself.”

She spun around and drained the noodles into a strainer, steam billowing from the sink. Tossing the noodles in a cream sauce, she brought them to the plates, piling them neatly on the white dishes. She placed a chicken breast on each plate and spooned the capered sauce over top, before delivering the plates to the table. 

“Come eat,” she called to Bridget, pulling out a chair for the blonde.

“Oh, baby, this looks amazing,” she said sitting in the proffered chair and scooting into place at the table.

Franky sat across from her and waited for her to take the first bite. Watching her expression change was Franky’s favorite part of cooking for her. That she could make a bad day better, with just the flavor of her food was a special power that Franky held dear and wielded carefully.

Tonight, she knew she had hit the mark when Bridget’s eyes closed and she smiled serenely at her first mouthful. “Mmm,” Bridget sighed. Sawing through her chicken breast, Bridget smiled at her. 

“I thought since it was the weekend that maybe you might want to stay over here tonight…”

“Sure,” Bridget answered almost reflexively, followed by an awkward pause when Franky assumed she just figured out what she had agreed to.

After dinner, Franky joined Bridget on the sofa, music still quietly playing in the background.

“It’s not so bad here, hey?”

The holiday lights twinkled on the wall behind them, casting colorful shadows across the room. Bridget smiled. “It’s lovely.”

“I even got rid of that strange smell,” Franky said proudly.

Bridget laughed. “That does make it more pleasant.”

“More wine?” Franky asked, jovially.

“Nuh. My head is swimming.”

“Well, that puts a hold on my other plans then.” Franky smiled slyly.

Bridget chuckled. “I could really use a good night’s rest.”

Franky nodded. “Message received.” She untangled herself from Bridget and stood at the other end of the couch. “Help me pull out the bed.”

When Bridget stood, they yanked the old convertible bed from its hiding place. The awful sound was only outdone by the mattress’ musty smell--she should have aired it out--but Bridget was pleasant and polite and didn’t even make a face. 

They dressed the bed in silence before preparing to retire for the night. Franky offered her a spare toothbrush and Bridget borrowed a tank top to sleep in. The bed creaked when they crawled in and Franky wrapped her arms around the smaller woman. The mattress was lumpy and stale but Bridget’s scent was sweet and her body, warm and Franky couldn’t think of any other place she would rather be. Her home was tiny and as plain as they come, but as they lay together in the dark, beneath the twinkling lights above her sofa, one thing was certain: her home was full of love tonight.


End file.
